Several years ago, when I was trying to figure out what to do with my new and somewhat mysterious Twitter account, I devised a ‘Tweet What You Eat’ system where my clients could stay in touch with me in real time to let me know what they were eating. That way I could cheer them on and give them feedback when they needed it. I thought this was a pretty brilliant way to use Twitter: if your lunch had more than 41 characters, you were probably eating too much.

Eventually ‘Tweet What You Eat’ gave way to ‘Text it to Me.’ There’s nothing quite like ‘real time’ and an accountability partner in your pocket to keep you inspired and on track. Let me be clear: this is NOT a food log. I’m the culinary guide at your side. Not the food police.

 And, I play along, too. If my clients are brave enough to let me know what they’re eating throughout the day, it’s only fair that I do the same.

This is where humility meets humor.

Madeline (not her real name) is a college student navigating the pressures of an intense exam week along with the challenges of what it means to be a campus connoisseur (don’t even get me started on college food choices). We started our text-it-to-me exchange a couple weeks ago to add an additional layer of support to her food life during a particularly stressful time period. However, when we started this adventure, it was HER stress we were trying to assuage.

I had no idea my life was going to be just as crazy, albeit under totally different circumstances. Madeline is figuring out what to eat in the midst of a crazy exam week and I’m figuring out what to eat as carpets are ripped out of my home and new flooring installed all around me.

I’m a pretty good planner so I prepared for what I thought would be about a week to ten days of construction. I made a progressive dinner (cook once, eat several times): roast chicken > chicken stock > chicken salad > chicken tortilla soup. I was proud of my culinary planning; we ate very well the first week.

 And then, it became very clear that this job was going to take much longer that we anticipated. Sh*t happens.

Text-it-to Me

Breakfast went from fresh fruit, steel cut oats, nuts and seeds, and a cup of hot tea or homemade kombucha to …

“I just finished off the last of the mini-croissants my husband brought home from Giant.” (ugh)

Lunch went from fennel citrus salad drizzled with lemon infused olive oil and a splash of blackberry vinegar to …

“I’m upstairs, trapped in my study. Thinking I probably won’t see lunch today. I’ll let you know what I make for dinner.”

Dinner, which started out pretty grand indeed, soon became,

“We’re eating BLTs, cheese nips, and beer.”

I did manage to make a REALLY awesome, super easy roasted red pepper soup that even my beloved white-on-white enjoyed. Turns out the soup doesn’t have to be white as long it’s creamy. Needless to say I didn’t tell him the base was buttermilk. Buttermilk pancakes, yes. Buttermilk soup? That would be a stretch for my cautious connoisseur.

We’re entering week three. Madeline is home this weekend enjoying the luxury of her parents’ fully equipped kitchen and I’m getting ready to roast a chicken so I can prepare for the week(s) ahead.

Meanwhile I’m trying to love everything that gets in my way.

Because Even the Word Obstacle is an Obstacle
by Alison Luterman



Try to love everything that gets in your way:
the Chinese women in flowered bathing cap
s
murmuring together in Mandarin, doing leg exercises in your lane
while you execute thirty-six furious laps,
one for every item on your to-do list.
The heavy-bellied man who goes thrashing through the water
like a horse with a harpoon stuck in its side,
whose breathless tsunamis rock you from your course.
Teachers all. Learn to be small
and swim through obstacles like a minnow
without grudges or memory. Dart
toward your goal, sperm to egg. Thinking Obstacle
is another obstacle. Try to love the teenage girl
idly lounging against the ladder, showing off her new tattoo:
Cette vie est la mienne, This life is mine,
in thick blue-black letters on her ivory instep.
Be glad shell have that to look at all her life,
and keep going, keep going. Swim by an uncle
in the lane next to yours who is teaching his nephew
how to hold his breath underwater,
even though kids aren’t allowed at this hour. Someday,
years from now, this boy
who is kicking and flailing in the exact place
you want to touch and turn
will be a young man, at a wedding on a boat
raising his champagne glass in a toast
when a huge wave hits, washing everyone overboard.
He’ll come up coughing and spitting like he is now,
but he’ll come up like a cork,
alive. So your moment
of impatience must bow in service to a larger story,
because if something is in your way it is
going your way, the way
of all beings; towards darkness, towards light.